It’s hotter than Hades here in Buenos Aires. I realize the heat wave I’m enduring won’t garner much sympathy from my peeps in the Northeastern U.S. who are tracking weekly snowpocalypses. But seriously, guys? I’ve got one word for you: Buckets. As in, I’m sweating BUCKETS in Buenos Aires.
Mind you, I’ll take a heat wave over a polar vortex any old day, but right now it’s worth noting that with the heat index, temperatures feel like 116 degrees F.
The “Good Air”? Not so much right now.
The steaminess is bolstered by high humidity, which, in addition to making my hair large and more in charge than usual, seems to exacerbate the sweat puddling off my body. Attractive, right?
I’d like to be brave and bold and tell you that no heat wave is gonna break my stride, no humidity gonna slow me down, oh no. But that would be a total lie. Case in point: after taking pains to join a local gym, I sadly realized not only did FitnessOne boast treadmills and exercise bikes worthy of the Soviet Era, it also failed to have air conditioning.
Work my booty on a treadmill in 100 degree heat? Oh, HELL no. I’ll just keep stuffing provoleta in my mouth, thank you very much, and hope the gods of cholesterol don’t notice.
The situation reached such a sweat-soaked crescendo yesterday, that I found myself in awe, reading an email from our landlord explaining that our building’s maid was unable to work because of “hot strike.” The notion left me and Ayaz nervously wondering, was this heat stroke, or had she actually gone on hot strike? The latter a real possibility in this land of financial crises, exorbitant inflation and frequent, noisy protests.
The extreme steam also makes wandering the city aimlessly on foot, exploring hidden corners and such, a less attractive endeavor. Thankfully, I’ve managed to (somewhat) master the city’s public transportation. Still, even this might have its pitfalls.
While I was pumped to discover that buses are cheap and often boast decor chosen by the driver, including snazzy vinyl curtains with fringe (!), I was less than thrilled to hop aboard the un-air-conditioned subways, slipping and sliding against other sweaty bodies, gasping in unison for air, wondering how on Earth no one had passed out cold (er, hot?).
So, really, what’s a chica to do?
When you’re this chica, and have a propensity for cool spaces, shade, and enjoying the local comida, you obviously take to exploring the local cafes, sipping on cool pitchers of limonada laced with mint, and munching on a delightful selection of delicate pastries.
Until things cool off, look for me at local Palermo Hollywood haunts — I’ll be the one fruitlessly fanning herself with a cocktail-size napkin. Hasta luego!